Love for the Strong
by reenka
Summary: You always hurt the ones you love. (HD)


DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

Author notes: I kept thinking of that scene in the Buffy: the Vampire Slayer episode, "Dead Things", where, you know, Buffy beats up Spike and he lets her. "You always hurt the ones you love"-- quote from Buffy. I swear to god, I could rewrite half the major Buffy/Spike scenes as Harry/Draco, I really could.

-------------

-** Love for the Strong** -

-------------

There are only so many ways you can tell him you love him. He never hears you. He never understands. In the end, though, you only need the one.

When he stands in front of you with that look in his eye, you know what's coming. His fists clench and his eyes narrow and you can almost feel the sudden bloodlust like a tingle on your skin. You break out in goosebumps and wait for the inevitable. Why fight it? He will pay for this many times over, if you wait. You can almost smell his guilt, afterwards. His guilt and shame and need, redoubled. Every time.

You lift your chin, exposing your neck to him, daring him. "Come on, Potter. What are you waiting for?" It's been awhile... maybe he's gotten rusty.

You can feel him looking. You can see him licking his lips, swallowing, flushing with renewed rage. Oh yes, this will be good. Will he tell you he hates you again?

"I-- I just came to tell you this stops now. I've got better things to do than listen to your pointless canned insults, Malfoy. Give it up. Game over."

He sounds like he means it, he really does, and for a second your heart skips a beat, but then you notice the way he's not meeting your eyes. And then there's the way he's not moving from his spot at the other end of the short corridor. He wants a little push, then. He always does.

"By the way, what does your little girlfriend think of our little... arrangement, Potter? She finally noticed those pretty bruises on your knuckles, I take it? Does she--"

Potter takes a step towards you, then stops.

"Don't you fucking talk about her!" he hisses, then starts as if the word "fuck" physically shocked him as it passed his lips. His eyes narrow, but he can't stop his inhibitions from flying every which way, just being near you. Such a blushing virgin, the great Harry Potter. You laugh, watching his flush spread beneath his collar. You wonder how far down it goes.

"Afraid of the truth, Potter?"

"Fuck you!" he snarls, eyes flashing the way they always do right before he snaps. And oh, you want it.

You wonder if he's hard like you are. Sometimes it feels like all your blood really does pool in your cock whenever you're around him, making you paler than you should be, leeching all the color from your skin. You are weak. Too weak. You should be the one a few paces away from leaping on him, bringing pain and the promise of death. Every time you see him, all you can think of is violence and sex, and eventually it ceased to matter which end of the stick you were at. Getting it, that's what mattered.

"Empty promises," you say lightly, before you think better of it. His face crumples in disgust. He looks so sincere. He always does. Fucking you would probably drive him mad, though that's not what concerns you. You tell yourself you simply know better than to start.

That doesn't mean you'd mind a little tease... some fuel for your daydreams. You can never actually tell if he's hard once he's on you, to your regret-- the pain distracts you. Later, you can let yourself imagine. You imagine he's hard now, and it's all you can do to stop from changing the rules of the game. You wonder what he'd do if you muttered a simple binding spell, pinned him against the wall and thrust your tongue in his mouth. There is such a thing as a game that's gone on too long. Biting hard on the inside of your cheek, you remind yourself that's not part of the plan.

You look at him and you think a temporary mind-link spell would really come in handy. No more words. No more games. It has its appeal. You look and you wonder what he sees. Whether he thinks you have smooth touchable skin, whether he knows what your eye-color is. Whether he knows how much you hate him, and how much that has always cost you. Loving him costs you nothing. It's so easy, really, as long as you keep your mouth shut. Which is easy, because you still hate him anyway.

"You're sick, Malfoy." That's what he says. His eyes are deadened and flat, his mouth curved in a sneer. He's breathing fast and furious, his chest heaving, but he won't move. He's as stubborn as you are, maybe more so.

"If you don't stop wasting time, I'll take this straight to the Weasel, scarface," you drawl, breathing carefully. He's just waiting for you to let your guard down, you know he is. You know him.

He growls and your breath catches in your throat. Oh yes. Oh yes. Now. Now! "SHUT UP!"

He rushes at you, his teeth bared, his face flushed bright red. He's so yours it'd embarrass you if it didn't make you ache. So worth it, you think as your head snaps back with the force of his first blow.

You don't believe in true love, and you've never met anyone who did. It came to you against your will, flooding your body like a wet dream, making you languorous enough to accept it. You still don't believe in it, but it's a working theory. If you love him, he's yours, you think. You've finally figured it out, even though it took awhile. When you're feeling melodramatic, you think you're only accepting your doom, but most times it just feels inevitable and right. You've never been one to fight yourself overmuch. This is right. It feels right. You are right, just like you've always been.

There are a 101 ways to tell him, and you went through them one by one, discarding them. Those are all things you can't do-- you won't do. He wouldn't trust you if you said it anyway. It all works out much better, like this.

You close your eyes when he throws the first punch again, dancing with the pain. Your weapons are still there, lodged in your mouth, and you sharpen them constantly, wanting them to be good enough. One day, your tongue will be his downfall, and it never has to touch him. You will be good enough to pierce through his skin with words alone, to cut through his entrails. He will bleed red Gryffindor blood, and it will be worth it. Your love will make him bleed. That's all it would take.

'IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouI--' It's a mantra in your head, swirling dizzyingly round and round, making you giddy. You can taste your own blood, and the pain just makes everything sharper. His weight on you. His hands on you. His mouth against your ear. In that moment, you might almost be happy.

"Get it-- straight-- Malfoy--" he pants. "Stay-- the fuck-- away from-- me and-- my-- friends--"

You choke on the bloody spit pooled in your mouth. Now is not a good time for conversation.

He's on top of you, ripping apart your face, driving the air from your lungs. He's screaming something, something you can't quite catch past the ringing in your ears, and then suddenly, he stops. He slumps against you, still panting, spent.

"Hateyousofuckingmuch," he mutters against the bruised skin on the side of your neck. At another time, you would have shivered with pleasure, but right now you're just glad he's finished. You always manage to forget that this is-- he is-- too much for you, after all. Maybe it's time to think about alternatives, not that you'd ever found any before.

The stone floor is cool against your burning cheek. You wait for him to get up, leave like he always does. The show is over, isn't it? His weight on your sore ribcage isn't helping anything. And why is he the one who's breathless and exhausted, anyway?

His mouth is still moving against your neck. You're not all there, but it doesn't seem like he's actually saying anything. What is he--?

Oh.

You don't move at all, your eyes widening almost comically. This-- this isn't what you-- was it? No.

"P-Potter?" You hate yourself a little for that stutter, but it feels like your voice isn't quite yours to command. He's moving his hips just a tiny bit, almost imperceptible, but it's enough for your sensitized skin to register as pain. Question answered, then.

This is wrong, you think. I don't love him, you think. Panic sets in around the moment you realize Potter isn't going to snap out of it. You've broken him at last, you think, teetering on the brink of hysteria. Does this mean he loves you? That would be-- that would be just--

"You-- you-- NO!" You scream, your voice not your own. You'll never know where you find the strength to throw him off you like that, so that he lands on his arse some feet away from you. You don't pause to look back before you start off at a full run towards the dungeons like the armies of hell itself were on your heels.

Shuddering over and over, your blanket tucked tightly around you, your teeth chattering, it finally hits you that this isn't going to work. At this rate, you'll hate the both of you and then there'll be no going back. In a daze, you wonder if it's just that he can't love, and neither can you, and you're both crippled somehow. Love makes you weak; your father had told you that when you were old enough to know what the words meant. So does hate.

You hadn't listened, of course. You'd never actually understood before now, not really.

"So how can we win, father?" you'd asked, because you'd always known that weakness was the mark of your enemies. Your father had shaken his head, looking at your young self with something like affection.

"You're too young for that part, Draco," your father had said, his voice brooking no argument. "You will know when you're ready." You'd always felt ready, but it wasn't until a few weeks had passed with Father in Azkaban that you were judged so by the person that mattered.

"Remember what I told you, Draco," the letter had said, and you had beamed until your face hurt, because they'd said there were no letters from Azkaban. No one else in your House had certainly gotten any, but you were always special. This wasn't a surprise. "Love for the strong and hate for the weak. Remember who'll protect you, my son. Do what needs to be done, and you will have no regrets."

This has to stop, that's what you think. It hasn't even begun yet, and it has to stop. He can't love you, and you-- you're just going to have to get in line. Know your place. That's another thing your father had told you. Focus. Focus. Priorities first. Focus.

You leap out of bed, screaming in hopeless rage.

All this waiting. All this wondering whether he'll read the truth in your eyes, whether he'll just magically feel the same thing you do if you give it a chance. All this time, and you weren't even playing the same game, or for the same stakes, or by the same rules. This ends now.

You stumble back to the scene, not expecting to find him there, curled up in a miserable little ball by the narrow window at one end. He stares out into the twilight sky but you doubt he's sky-watching.

You stand there for a long while, saying nothing at all, and the silence starts to press down on your skin, almost painful against your bruises. He looks so alone, so helpless and pathetic and weak.

Your knees fold from under you and you tumble down by his side, not noticing his sudden jerk, the way his whole body jolts. You look up as he stares at you, eyes wide and reddened and swimming with pointless questions, and you know he's seconds away from leaving. You wait until you can tell he's on the edge, and one little push would be all it takes. You know when he's been lulled into a deceptive state of calm, because he starts speaking.

"We-- we have to talk, Malfoy," he says quietly, and you're tempted to smile at his naivete. No one had ever told him those basic rules about life, have they? Some barely hidden part of you is trembling with excitement. This is what you'd wanted, isn't it? Or is it? You don't know anymore. It just has to end before any more rules change.

On your feet in an instant, you look down on him, gathering your strength. "We have nothing to talk about, Potter," you say, not even seeing the expression on his upturned face. You leave him there once again, speechless, hoping he bruises as well as you do. You will never tell him, you think. No matter what happens, you'll never tell him what he wants to hear, and eventually, that will be enough to take him down. And then you won't love him anymore, after all. No love for the weak.

It's not over, you know that. It's never over, not while he still has the power to hurt you and make you love the pain. It's not surprising that you want a little for yourself, is it.

You always hurt the ones you love.


End file.
